Every Hour Has Its End.

From My Experience, Not One In Twenty Marries The First Love; We Build Statues Of Snow And Weep To See Them Melt.

In That Pleasant District Of Merry England Which Is Watered By The River Don, There Extended In Ancient Times A Large Forest, Covering The Greater Part Of The Beautiful Hills And Valleys Which Lie Between Sheffield And The Pleasant Town Of Doncaster.

All Men Who Have Turned Out Worth Anything Have Had The Chief Hand In Their Own Education.

The Playbill, Which Is Said To Have Announced The Tragedy Of Hamlet, The Character Of The Prince Of Denmark Being Left Out.

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.